


Goldfish

by AKnightOfAGoodKing



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Attempt at Humor, Divorce, Jealous Sherlock, Pining, Texting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-06 21:08:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15894174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AKnightOfAGoodKing/pseuds/AKnightOfAGoodKing
Summary: Gabrielle "Gabby" Lestrade is a Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard, becoming more and more estranged from her wife. But how can you start life over again when you've already reached the middle of it? Who'd want to start over with her? Certainly not Mycroft Holmes that's for sure.Right?[DO NOT REPOST/REUSE MY WORK(S) WITHOUT MY ACKNOWLEDGEMENT AND PERMISSION.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a kink you guys, turning men detectives into women and making sure that everyone knows that they wear pants suits, but man I wish I knew why the hell I'm doing it this way.

When Sherlock appears at her crime scene for the first time, DI Gabby Lestrade knows she couldn't get rid of him, even if she wanted to. The young man barges in as high as a bloody kite and solves the case just by looking at the body. Of course, she's doubtful of how factual Sherlock is, but she could tell he needs an outlet. As a woman of the law, Gabby prefers if it wasn't heroin.

"Sherlock Holmes," she addresses, having learned his name when she demanded for it, "you're not allowed here. You're a civilian."

The _boy_ —his age is correct, but his eyes are looking everywhere, as if he is trying to find something, and without it, he remains a child—glances at her, letting the brick wall of the alleyway take all his weight. His dark curls are a stark contrast against his pale skin, voluptuous while he himself is too thin.

"You'd taken weeks to solve it without me," he says as-a-matter-of-factly. "Everyone inside is too stupid to see what's in front of their faces."

Gabby sighs, not liking that the raven insulted her team. She replies, "Does that include me?"

Sherlock glances at her again before his dulling blue eyes starts looking around again. "If you have to ask me that, then maybe you should back in, Detective."

The woman resists the urge to roll her eyes, though she believes it was much less insulting than the one before. "What do you want, Sherlock?" she asks, crossing her arms. She looks at him firmly, daring the boy to answer.

"Cases," Sherlock says, simple and final. "Everything is dull. People are stupid. Dead people are not, because they're dead. Not dull. You can take all the credit, I don't care. You'll be promoted quickly if you do, Lestrade."

She is an amazing woman, Gabby realizes, for not outright punching the boy in the face for that. How _dare_ he presumed that all she wanted is  _credit_. She had wanted to be a detective ever since she was a little girl. Being what she is now was her dream, her goal, her _purpose_. She did not face every bully in her life and go through the academy for _credit_.

"Fuck off," she bites out, seething, but still she keeps her temper because though she may not know Sherlock personally, she's seen too many like him back when she first started. He needs support, and she is the only person who could give him that. "No."

Sherlock frowns, and he opens his mouth.

"Not when you're like _this_ ," she cuts in without giving him a chance. "It's one thing to have a civilian running into a crime scene, it's another thing when said civilian is on _heroin_. Get clean, Sherlock, and I'll see what I can do. There's a lot of cold cases down in storage. Maybe you'll solve one or two."

This displeases the boy if the scowl on his face said anything, but Gabby holds her eyes on him, unwavering even though she is about a third of a foot shorter than him.

He relents. " _Fine_ ," Sherlock exhales through clenched teeth.

Gabby smiles this time, pulling out her wallet and giving him her card. "Call me when you're checked in," she says. "I'll come visit you when I have time."

"Not necessary." But he takes it anyway.

"Do you need a ride home?"

"No. I'll be checking in _tonight_."

Gabby raises an eyebrow at how immediate this change was, but she isn't protesting. She's trying to recall which clinic would accept patients this late at night, already a new date since she left the Yard. "I'll make some calls then," she tells him, taking out her phone.

"No need. Mycroft already knows and is probably pissing himself in joy. I'll wait here."

 _Who's Mycroft?_ Gabby has never heard a name like that before, nothing common like Gabrielle was. And neither is Sherlock. Maybe the Holmeses are a posh lot, well-educated based on Sherlock's accent and vocabulary, and attractiveness as well, even on drugs. The combination of intelligence, looks and charm is a dangerous one, and Gabby isn't sure what she has gotten herself into. Papa warned her about this all those years ago, but Gabby hadn't paid much attention to that advice since she married her wife, Delia.

She remembers Mum laughing every time, responding, _Then I married a criminal._

Temporarily assigning herself Sherlock's well-being, Gabby stays outside with him, and they share a comfortable silence, even if Sherlock is frowning. Two minutes later, a slim, black car with tinted windows drives up, arriving silently yet so pronounced with its presence. It stops by the sidewalk directly in front of them, waiting just like they were.

Sherlock doesn't do so much as say goodbye as he pushes himself from the brick wall and walks to the mysterious vehicle. Gabby watches as the door opens from the inside and the tall yet thin boy slips in, not sparing her a look. The door closes, and the car drives off as silently as it came.

For weeks, Gabby thinks about that night. Sherlock doesn't call, and she gets a bit worried. Yet she doesn't have enough time and energy to go ask every clinic if they have a tall, skinny boy with a smart mouth in their treatment, not with an upset wife waiting at home, if Gabby even goes home.

No, that's not right. She shouldn't do that to Delia. She has to try harder. Gabby will go home now and maybe, just maybe, they'll be okay again.

* * *

Working with Sherlock has its uses if anything. It certainly got cases solved quickly and Gabby could arrest the ones who did the deed and get them off the streets of London. She's been praised by her higher-ups several times, which she accepts only because she hasn't really told them about Sherlock yet, her . . . consult?

And fortunate, her team respects her enough to not tell, though a few are on the fence about the boy so she makes sure she's the one dealing with Sherlock most of all. Everything he has to say, about the cases and her team, she hears first and, if necessary, she filters them out and passes them on.

(Working with Sherlock is not helping her marriage. He needs too much of her attention, and honestly, he has been the most interesting person she had the pleasure of knowing in years. Seventeen years to be exact, when she first met her wife in that coffee shop a mile from the academy.)

Within a few months, they establish a nice pattern. Gabby gets a case, and if the team gets stuck, she calls in Sherlock who then arrives promptly, assesses the case, tells Gabby everything he observes and concludes, rates the case according to how interesting it was, and loudly makes his complaints as he leaves. The inspector can tell that he is pleased despite that. He has not once gone back to getting high.

At some point, it becomes another part of Gabby’s life, and she gets comfortable with it, not realizing how much more her job has become her life. She ignores the blank looks on Delia’s face when she talks about Sherlock for the thousandth time, not knowing that they have already given up on trying to make this right. Gabby doesn't realize it until it is too late.

But it is before her divorce three years later that she meets the mysterious Mycroft who Sherlock spoke of only once of. She receives a text from an anonymous number as she walks out of the Yard, a familiar black car driving up to the curb.

> Detective Inspector Gabrielle Lestrade. Get in the car. —MH

As if on cue, the back seat door opens, a young woman getting out with a Blackberry in hand. “Detective Inspector,” the strange woman says. “He's waiting for you.”

Gabby frowns, every nerve in her body yelling at her to pull out her gun. “Who are _you_?” she asks before doing anything. “ _Who_ is waiting?”

“Eloise, ma’am. You'll understand when you meet him. He wishes to discuss Sherlock with you.”

Hearing Sherlock’s name automatically lowers her guard, only because she is now concerned about the boy. She saw him just yesterday, but there's no saying what he could do in a day, much less an hour. Gabby continues to frown, but she nods and climbs into the car, Eloise after her. The young woman doesn't even tell the driver to go, and the car moves.

Gabby couldn't tell where exactly they're heading because the windows are tinted, obscuring the shape and color of buildings in the night, but it isn't a long trip, her phone telling her that it has only been ten minutes. Eloise points to the window behind them.

“He will be in there,” the young woman says, her screen lighting up her pretty face. “This car will be here to take you home when you're done.”

Gabby clears her throat, thanking Eloise before getting out of the car. She finds herself in a quiet, wide area on the outskirts of the city. You could see the stars well from out here, only one building lit up. It's a small warehouse, not new but not unkempt either. Nothing about it stands out save for the fact that it's in the middle of nowhere. She goes in.

“Hello, Detective Inspector,” a man with auburn hair, tall and thin, with a clarity in his accent. He dresses formally, a three piece suit that is not doubt worth more than three of her paychecks with black leather Oxfords, and he is leaning against a large polished umbrella with manicured hands. She thinks he would be quite handsome if he grows a beard, but she doesn't tell him.

“Hello,” Gabby replies, eyeing the man suspiciously. “Is Sherlock okay?”

“Oh, Sherlock is fine, though I did bring you here to speak about him.”

“Why? Who are you?”

“An interested party.”

“An interested party? You better tell me more than that, or else I'm leaving.”

The man holds up a hand. “Just a moment, Detective Inspector.”

“Why? What does Sherlock matter to you? You're not a stalker, are you? Because I'll tell you that is an invasion of privacy and I _will_ arrest you.”

“I assure you I'm not.”

“Then give me your name. You know mine.”

The man nods, placing his hand back down. “The name is Mycroft Holmes, Detective Inspector, Sherlock’s older brother.”

 _Oh, that's Mycroft_. He's the one Sherlock spoke about the first time they met, the one who got him to the clinic right away in the dead of night. He's the brother Sherlock never spoke about or even mentioned having. He ends his text with _MH_.

“That makes a lot of sense,” Gabby says, shaking her head in exasperation. “He never mentioned you before. Not really."

Mycroft sighs, understanding. “He likes to pretend I don't exist, but I do. He gets quite . . . short tempered when I'm involved.”

Gabby snorts. “So you want to talk about Sherlock?”

“Yes. You're the one who convinced him to get treatment for his _addiction_. For that, I thank you, Detective Inspector. He'd always denied my suggestions to seek help.”

“Is that all?”

“Well, no. I want to offer you compensation and an assignment.”

Gabby resisted the urge to punch another Holmes. Their pompous assumptions of her and their short sight of the world as a whole are well beyond her pay grade, and once again, she isn't going to fall for that. Mycroft Holmes may be Sherlock’s brother and rightfully justify in being concerned, but what she does is not because she wants to gain something. She just wants to help people; that's why she became a copper in the first place, and this _moron_ wants to pay her for convincing Sherlock to get off drugs. This is insulting.

“No,” she says angrily.

Mycroft frowns, hands clenching at the handle of his umbrella. “Detecti—”

“I don't care,” Gabby cuts sharply. “I'm not like that, _Mister_ Holmes. You can't pay me for helping out a kid who just looking for something to do. That's my _job_ to help out civilians. I'm not doing anything for you. You can kiss my arse.”

Mycroft's frown deepens, but the graying woman glares at the younger man. He exhales audibly in acceptance. “I see. I won't pay you then. It seems that you have taken to my brother, Detective Inspector. Then all I can ask of you now is to let me keep in contact with you. I would like to hear about my little brother when he refuses to see me. He always likes to get into trouble but _hates_ it when I try to help. I worry.”

Gabby grins, putting her hands on her hips. “See, that's better. I was so close to punching you. Is that a Holmes trait? No, wait, how did you even get my number anyway.”

The younger man smiles, raising an eyebrow in amusement. “I assure you there's nothing for you to worry about,” he says knowingly. “I occupy a minor position in the British government.”

And that is the start of a beautiful friendship, though the beginning consists of texts once in a while about one topic and only one topic. Sherlock doesn't suspect a thing, and Gabby thinks that is for the best. The boy likes to be a bit dramatic at times.

* * *

> Is he well? —MH
> 
> He tried to jump off a bridge. —GL
> 
> To prove a bloody point. —GL
> 
> I'm going to kill him. —GL
> 
> Please don't. I would have to answer to Mummy if he dies. —MH

(Gabby snickers, it seems both the Holmes sons address their mother like that.)

> He stole my socks. —GL
> 
> Off your feet? —MH
> 
> From my apartment. —GL
> 
> How does he know where I live??? —GL
> 
> Perhaps you should arrest him for invasion of privacy. —MH
> 
> Tempting. —GL
> 
> But he'll only annoy his cellmates and steal their socks. —GL
> 
> . . . I'll order him several new pairs. —MH
> 
> He likes to experiment. —MH
> 
> But with my socks??? —GL

* * *

Mycroft Holmes can't believe how taken he has become with Detective Inspector Gabrielle Lestrade, about ten years his senior. She has a strong sense of right and wrong and values people, even those like his little brother. Sherlock could even test the patient of a saint, so Mycroft is more than happy that Gabrielle has somewhat managed to befriend Sherlock. Mycroft worries a lot, but he doesn't have all the time in the world to watch him every step of the way. His job takes up a lot of his hours.

And yet, despite juggling between taking care of diplomacy, international relations and his brother’s well-being, Mycroft makes room to invite Gabrielle into his schedule. It's the least he could do in return of her taking care of Sherlock on his behalf. He will intercept if necessary, but for the most part, Sherlock is doing well without him. Mycroft is both relieved and saddened by that.

They only texts the first couple of months, and Mycroft finds himself looking forward to Gabrielle’s responses in between free times between meetings. She texts the way she sounds, and he finds this remarkable.

> Shall we meet again to discuss Sherlock? —MH
> 
> You can recount to me his adventures in more detail face to face. —MH
> 
> Dinner perhaps? —MH
> 
> That sounds great. —GL
> 
> Could use the distraction. —GL
> 
> I'm free tonight. —GL
> 
> That is fine. I'll pick you up. —MH
> 
> Alright. See you then. —GL
> 
> Likewise. —MH

Dinner is arranged at one of Mycroft’s favorite French restaurant, and it comes to Gabrielle’s shock because she wasn't expecting anything expensive or fancy. (He could tell she is bordering on exhausted, the dark bags under eyes and the crinkles in her suit jacket, and stressed.)

“We can't eat here,” Gabrielle protests, not moving an inch away on the sidewalk. She curses when the car drives away. “I really can't afford a place like this and I am not proper. People will stare.”

“I'll take care for the bill, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft assures her, holding out an arm to her in politeness. “If people stare, it will because you are an attractive woman. Nothing else.”

He sees a doubtful expression cross her face, but she nods, taking his arm. They walk into the restaurant and a host greets them in French, leading them to a table. Gabrielle doesn't let go until they are seated, looking awkward because she felt awkward. Mycroft thinks she fits in just fine.

‹May I start you with something to drink?› the host asks with a charming smile.

‹A bottle of Cabernet Franc,› Mycroft answers, ordering his usual, and he looks at Gabrielle, about to translate.

‹Just water please,› she answers with a polite smile to the host, who nods and goes to get their drinks. The way she spoke is slow, not having been in use for a while.

“You know French,” Mycroft notes out loud. He knows her father was French, her mother a English, but he did not consider the idea that the inspector was taught her father’s language. “Your father?”

Gabrielle nods, picking up the menu. “Papa loved speaking to me in French,” she tells him. “Mum was absolutely rubbish at it, but they managed to stay married. Dear Lord, these don't even have prices listed.”

“As I said, Detective Inspector, I will handle the bill. Please just enjoy yourself.”

“ _Gabby_.”

“What?”

Gabrielle huffs, showing a little bit more of her exhaustion. “I’m not always on duty, Mister Holmes,” she says. “I have a name.”

Mycroft smiles lightly, nodding his head. “I can accommodate that, _Gabrielle_ ,” he replies, because he already did in his mind. “You can call me Mycroft.”

The inspector sighs, accepting that is the best she would get. It should be by now that Gabrielle knew when to pick her battles after working with Sherlock so closely for so long, but it is a little amusing that she's extending this to Mycroft as well. She is much more adept in handling people like them than she expected, or perhaps she is at the end of her rope.

The host returns with their drinks, placing the water and two glasses on the table, and he shows Mycroft and Gabrielle the bottle to authenticate it's the former's order. When he is given confirmation, the host opens the bottle swiftly and skillfully and pours out both glasses. He leaves with a nod, telling them their waiter will be with them soon.

“He brought two glasses,” Gabrielle notes, looking at the wine closest to her.

“He probably thought we are on a date,” Mycroft says. “It would be rude to not give the lady a glass of her own, even if she didn't ask for it, but please, Gabrielle, drink it. It's a fine selection.”

Gabrielle blushes a bit, but she accepts it, not wanting to embarrass the host. “It’s been a while since I've been on a date,” she says almost bitterly, both at herself and her wife.

Mycroft stays silent on this matter, knowing of the tension between the two married women, but it is not his business, even if he have developed a liking to the inspector. He would do nothing to intrude into Gabrielle's personal life unless she wishes. Until then, he is just the man on the other side of the text message asking about his brother.

“Should I recommend some establishments?” he asks.

Gabrielle chuckles at that. “Would I be able to afford it?” she jokes. “Coppers and travel agents don't get paid enough.”

“I'm sure I can compile more affordable places. Sherlock might have some insight into the more local ventures.”

“The boy doesn't look like he eats.”

Mycroft frowns, and unknowingly, he goes on a spiel about Sherlock and his lack of a healthy diet, stopping for a moment to order their meals and then continuing. He makes Gabrielle smile and laugh when he talks a little about their childhood, which he has not done in years. He is slowly coming to realize that he could speak quite easily around the detective inspector, though he does not know why. Perhaps texting consistently over a long period of time has made her somewhat familiar to him, more than he had expected. When he is done, Gabrielle exchanges some stories, both about Sherlock and not about Sherlock.

Dinner ends in a light note, lovely actually, almost two hours later, and the two are heading out of the restaurant, escorted by a grateful host. The black car arrives to meet them, and Mycroft holds the door open for Gabrielle who eyes him tiredly.

“Thank you,” she says, getting in, and she sits in the other side and closes her eyes, slumping against the leather.

Mycroft follows and orders the car to Gabrielle's address, and it drives off quietly. He doesn't try to continue their conversation so the trip is a quiet one. At some point, she falls asleep, snoring a little as her head drops against the door. Mycroft wants to move her because that is an uncomfortable position, which he knew from past experience, but he does not know how the detective inspector would take that. Though he wants to.

Eventually, the car slows and stops, and their night has come to end.

“Gabrielle,” Mycroft says, tapping her on the shoulder to wake her. She grumbles, opening her eyes. “We have arrived at your home.”

“Oh?” Gabrielle lets out, yawning into the hand. She sits up and opens the door, stepping out. She turns around, looking at Mycroft. “Thank you for dinner. It was a great way to let off a bit of steam. I'll treat you out to some fish and chips next time. Good night, Mycroft.”

Mycroft nods. “You're welcome, and thank you for the offer. I'll consider it. Good night, Gabrielle.”

Gabrielle gives him one last smile, small but sated, and she closes the door. Mycroft tells his driver to take him home, and he sits back a little, thinking of when to invite her for dinner again.

He does so two months later, and again and again, and then sometimes for coffee, for lunch, for breakfast. Mycroft learns that Gabrielle is a wonderful woman, not overly academic but witty with her snark and insightful in the people she knew, and it doesn't take much time for her to learn the nuance in his tone and expressions, which must be kept neutral at all times as not to “accidentally cause a war" as Sherlock claims. In very little time, Mycroft has started to consider Gabrielle as a _friend_ , and he doesn't have any of those. It's a sad fact, but it's not necessary to have them, not when he knows national leaders and political figures from around the world. Still, he holds his interactions with Gabrielle important.

Two years passes.

His little brother has gotten more involved in crime solving now and is thinking of starting his own business because some of the most interesting crimes are never reported to the police. Sherlock is also thinking about moving into his own flat, not one Mycroft doesn't mind paying for as long as his brother had a roof over his head and a bed to sleep in, and he is helping out a woman called Missus Hudson about putting her husband in jail. She's the landlady of 211B and 211C Baker Street. Sherlock is interested in 211B.

“It's livable,” Mycroft states, sitting in the couch. The flat has not yet been completely decorated, but Sherlock has already been living there a few days already and putting time to take his things out of the very few boxes he brought with him. The older man is a little glad that his brother is settling down, rooting himself to one place. It's better than running around the streets of London in the middle of the night.

“Of course it is, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, putting his favorite skull on top of the fireplace. He lets himself smile a bit before moving back. “I'd know if there is anything wrong with it. Missus Hudson spent a considerable amount of her settlement to repair the place the month before. It's as good as new.”

“Yes. There are two bedrooms. Will you look for a flatmate?”

“Maybe, but it'll take some time. I need to find someone who I can tolerate and isn't a complete idiot.”

“It'll take some time, indeed. I can assist you with the process.”

Sherlock sneers. “Absolutely not! You keep out of my business, Mycroft! It's enough that Georgette tells me off about eating properly and threatening to withhold cases, I don't need you to send me someone to spy on me. You left enough bugs here already.”

“ _Gabrielle_ ,” Mycroft corrects first, rolling his eyes. “Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. Fine, if you don't want my help, but rest assured, I _will_ not allow just anyone to be your flatmate without some background checking.”

“I can do what I please and you know it, Mycroft. You can't order me around.”

“I _will_ cut your funding, little brother. I might even ask Gabrielle to withhold some of the more interesting cases too. I can easily help her out with them.”

Sherlock glares, but he huffs, going into the kitchen as to not start a fight. He comes back out with a cup of tea for himself and sits lowly on his armchair, pouting like a child. “You and Grace are colluding against me,” he states with a frown. He looks at his older brother. “You like her.”

“Gabrielle,” Mycroft corrects again. “I enjoy her company.”

“No,” the younger Holmes states. “You _like_ her. You corrected me twice in the span of two minutes. It's the first thing you reply to even when this discussion is about me. ' _Caring is not an advantage,_ ’ your words exactly.” He pauses, looking through his memory palace for things he didn't pay attention to at the time. “You text. That's why Gina's been looking happy despite her marital problems. Mycroft, are you having an affair with the Detective Inspector? Mummy will be upset.”

Mycroft glares at Sherlock, who is smirking at the implications. “We are _not_ having an affair, brother," he rebukes. “We're just friends, and she's good company. She is concerned for you as much as I am, and a dinner or two helps keep her sane.”

“You buy her dinner, Mycroft? What next, flowers and diamonds?”

“Sometimes coffee and snacks, but we really don't talk about anything but you. That is our only commonality. But that's not the point. I don't have those kind of feelings towards Gabrielle, and even if I did, I would never do anything to damage her marriage to get what I want. I know when to cut my losses, Sherlock.”

Sherlock scoffs, balancing his cup on his chest. “Obviously not. You still meet up with her. It's unnecessary to meet up face to face when you can communicate through texts. You _like_ her, Mycroft. Did you find your goldfish in a married woman?”

“Sherlock, I live in a world full of goldfish. We both do.”

“So there's enough to go around to have our own.”

Mycroft blinks, surprised. His little brother is sounding a little _sentimental_. He never thought Sherlock cared about things like that. Sherlock cared about crimes and bees and mocking other people, not the solar system and goldfish. Mycroft isn't aware that something has happened. Maybe that's what happens when his little brother has been clean for the past few years, working on crimes because they're fun to him and moving out to a place on his own. Sherlock is happy, Mycroft thinks, and has started to care just a bit.

The auburn man smiles, getting up. “Good luck on finding a flatmate, Sherlock,” he says, taking this as a good conversation, and he leaves 211B Baker Street without as much as a goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this count as a slow burn fic? I've never written on before, oh boy, how exciting. 
> 
> Also, Sherlock is so hard to write? Like, he's softer here than he's portrayed in the show?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (please note that most of the first scene in this chapter is pulled off of the original script of the first episode.)

_"Jane, you're a soldier. It's going to take you awhile to adjust to civilian life—writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you. Trust me."_

Write a blog about everything that happens, that'll help you.  _Rubbish_. How can writing a blog help you if you don't have anything to write about, or even the energy to? She came out to the park to clear her head, walking with a limp and a cane and not feeling a bit better, at all. She's going to head back. She hears someone call her name. She ignores it, speeding up her pace because she isn't in the mood. She hasn't been in the mood since she was honorably discharged.

“Jane Watson!” the man shouts, catching her by the arm. “Stamford, Mike Stamford, we were at Barts together.”

Yes, Jane remembers Mike, one of her classmates back when she was still in school because she wanted to be a doctor. Then she joined the army right after graduation. For the next two decade, she did just as good as any doctor could do, but with an injury that almost killed her, the army booted her off and she only has one good leg left to stand on and an army pension that couldn't afford to keep her in London.

The two former classmates go to a coffee shop nearby, and Mike asks, looking at her cane, “Bad, is it?”

“My therapist thinks it's psychosomatic,” Jane replies curtly, wanting this conversation to end already. She's really not in the mood.

“What do you think?”

“I think I got shot. You're still at Barts then?”

Mike chuckles heartily. “Teaching now, bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them. What about you? Staying in town 'till you get yourself sorted?”

“Can't afford London on an army pension,” she bites bitterly. Twenty years on the force, and she couldn't even settle back home.

“What about Ha—” Jane cuts Mike off with a dangerous look, daring his old classmate to say that name.

Mike quickly fixes himself. “Well, I don't know, get a flatmate or something?”

Jane snorts, gesturing to her cane. “Who'd want  _me_ for a flatmate?” she asks. There's a laugh. “What?”

“You're the second person to say that to me today,” Mike explains, amused.

“Who was the first?”

That question is answered when Mike drags Jane to the dissection room at St. Bartholomew's, located in the basement where all the carcasses are located. That is when and where Jane Watson meets Sherlock Holmes for the first time, and surprisingly, Sherlock knows more about Jane on that first meeting than Jane has ever knew about herself and already is considering her as his flatmate. The interactions goes by much too quick for her to understand right away.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“How do you feel about the violin?”

“The names is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon.”

Jane stands in the basement of her alma mater, stunned at what just happened. Mike just laughs and says, “Yeah, he’s  _always_ like that.”

But she shows up at 7PM anyway. Immediately, he shows her around, and there is a nervous energy about him. He wants her to like him and wants her to stay, to be his flatmate.  _'You’re the second person to say that to me today.’_ He talks too much and too fast, a bit of a snob and insulting, but Jane thinks she'd like it here. There is just something about the man about eleven years her junior.

She meets Missus Hudson too. “What do you think, Doctor Watson?” the old landlady asks, giving Jane a knowing look. “There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be  _needing_ two bedrooms . . .”

“Well, of course, we’ll be needing two,” Jane says, rolling her eyes, but Missus Hudson muses about the couple next door and goes to tell Sherlock off for making a mess. The former doctor sighs and looks at Sherlock who is busying himself at his desk. “Found your website. The Science of Deduction.”

Sherlock perks up a bit. “What did you think?” he asks almost smugly.

“You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.”

“Yes, and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and the drinking habits of your brother in your mobile phone.”

“How?”

Just then someone barges in through the door, a woman a bit older than Jane, her hair almost entirely gray with some brown streaks here and there. She is dressed in a suit and an overcoat, looking at Sherlock who asks with some interest, “Where?”

“Brixton,” the other woman answers, “Lauriston Gardens.”

“What's different about this one?”

“The others didn't leave a note, this one did. Will you come?”

“Who's on forensics?”

“Anderson.”

Sherlock frowns, no longer looking like he'd go. “Anderson won't work with me.”

The other woman makes a face.  _Really, now?_ “He won't be your  _assistant_ ,” she says. “Will you come?”

“Not in a police car. I'll be right behind you.”

The other woman sighs in tired relief. “Thank you!” she shouts before turning around and leaving quickly.

There is a moment of silence. Then Sherlock cheers, getting up with an excited look on his face. His dark curls bounce with him. “ _Brilliant_! A note. Missus Hudson, I'll be late, might need some food. Something cold is fine. Jane make yourself at home. Don't wait up!”

And like the unfamiliar woman from moments ago, Sherlock runs out of the flat. Jane blinks, standing in 221B Baker Street because apparently she's going to be Sherlock’s flatmate. Missus Hudson chuckles nostalgically. “I’ll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg.”

“ _Damn my leg_ ,” Jane curses automatically, and she sees Missus Hudson’s apprehension. “I’m sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes . . . bloody thing.”

Missus Hudson nods, heading into the kitchen. Jane looks around a bit, still standing, when she catches a newspaper on the desk.  **Third “Suicide” Found.** There's a photo on it, of the woman who came in and left. _Inspector Lestrade, in charge of investigation._

Just who the hell is Sherlock Holmes?

Speak of the devil, and Sherlock sticks his head into the flat, looking at Jane. “You're a doctor,” he states. “In fact, you're an army doctor. Any good?”

Jane huffs. “Very good.”

“Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths?”

“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

There is a pause. “Want to see more?” he asks simply.

What Jane says next is unexpected and the best decision she has made in  _years_.

It turns out Sherlock is a consulting detective, the one in the world he claims, and he helps the Scotland Yard with cases that stump even the best of them. As they ride out to the crime scene, they talk, and Jane finds out what kind of man Sherlock is,  _deducing_ her military background and her “brother” Harry and Clara. Sherlock explains all of this to her, and Jane finds herself saying, “That was . . .  _amazing._ ”

Sherlock stops, looking surprised but ultimately pleased. He sounds like a boy when he says, “Do you think so?”

Jane nods. “Well, of course. It was extraordinary.  _Quite_ extraordinary.”

The world’s only consulting detective smiles. “That's not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?”

“ _Piss off._ ”

Yes, Jane is going to like living in 221B Baker Street. She's going to like being Sherlock Holmes' flatmate. (“Did I get anything wrong?” he asks a bit later. “Harry is short for Harriet,” she tells him with a smile.) In fact, she is very much correct in that assumption because less than two days, she gets kidnapped by Mycroft (Sherlock’s older brother, she learns later), kills a man through a window to save Sherlock, befriends DI Gabrielle Lestrade (“Gabby,” she tells Jane), recovers from her limp, and becomes Sherlock’s unofficial partner in his new consulting business. Jane finds a more stable income by becoming a doctor at a nearby clinic later that week.

Thank God for Mike Stamford.

* * *

Thank God for Jane Watson.

Sherlock thinks that a lot, but he has not said it out loud yet, despite already sharing a flat with the former army doctor for a good six months. He is happy with her. She makes the perfect flatmate. She doesn't mind his violin, even late at night and she has work early the next day. She has just about the same thrill for danger and excitement as he does but a tad bit more responsible. She thinks his deductions are great and that he's brilliant. Not many people understand that. And Mycroft isn't protesting about her residency.

Also, she has killed a man for her after barely knowing him for less than two days.

Thank God for Jane Watson indeed. He wants her to stay forever. She doesn't just tolerate him, she  _likes_ him, like as an actual person. Jane Watson is his friend. She  _has_ to stay. He makes sure the cabinet is filled with her favorite teas so he can keep stealing her jumpers to clean up his experiments. To make up for his violin, he makes her a cuppa when she comes home from work at the clinic tired and upset. (He understands that, other people are irritating to deal with.) For getting used to living with a fridge full of human body parts, he takes her to Angelo’s after the more exciting case because Jane would be too tired to make anything—Missus Hudson is  _not_ their housekeeper—and Sherlock doesn't cook. He offers her his skull for company if he leaves frantically leaves her at the flat without much explanation. He tries not to insult her intelligence and lump her with the rest of the world, but that's the least difficult thing he had to do.

Sherlock has never put this much effort into keeping someone around before, and truthfully, he doesn't know if he's doing it right. He texts his brother.

> Mycroft. —SH
> 
> Jane is my goldfish. —SH
> 
> Congratulations, dear brother. —MH
> 
> Shall I send a gift basket? —MH
> 
> Don't you dare.—SH
> 
> How do I keep her?—SH
> 
> She might leave. —SH
> 
> I'm not the best at this.—SH
> 
> Perhaps show her that you appreciate her company.—MH 
> 
> How? —SH
> 
> Dinner? Theatre? Telly? Make yourself an important presence in her life so she would miss you if you're gone? —MH
> 
> How do I do that? —SH
> 
> Intimacy through touch, I hear, is indispensable.—MH

Sherlock looks up from his phone, eyeing Jane who is sitting on the couch across from his armchair. She is reading the newspaper, the sound of the telly quiet in the background.  _Intimacy through touch,_ Sherlock thinks back on, and he gets up from his comfortable position and sits down on the empty space on the couch, pressing his shoulder against Jane’s. She looks up from the paper in confusion, looking at him suspiciously.

“What are you doing?” Jane asks.

“Nothing,” Sherlock replies, staring at the screen. There's an aristocrat drama on. He hates these just as much as he hate police dramas, but he remains seated. “Just sitting.”

“But you were sitting in your favorite seat just now.”

“Yes, well, I can see the telly better from here.”

“Sherlock, you don't  _like_ telly.”

On the outside, Sherlock keeps a blank expression, but inwardly, he's trying to come up with a response as to not scare her off but allow him to remain next to her. “A little change keeps things interested,” he says quickly. “I got bored sitting over there.”

Jane raises her eyebrows in surprise, but she just shrugs, getting used to the spontaneousness of her flatmate. Sherlock praises himself silently for this success, and that helps him settle himself in for the next few hours of bad drama, cheesy romance and too much or too little violence in their violence.

He is awaken around nine after falling asleep unexpectedly, head resting against her shoulder. His arms are crossed as if he was trying to defend himself against Lord Byron’s love scandals and the ghost of Lady Shelley’s husband.

“Sherlock, get off. Gabby and I are meeting up at the pub,” Jane tells him but not quite pushing her flatmate off.

The young man grumbles drowsily, not moving because he is comfortable in this position. Jane is warm and relaxing. “Why?” he asks. He wants her to stay.

“Because Gabby and I are friends, and friends sometimes go out to the pub and grab a pint or two.”

“You can drink here.”

Jane chuckles, pushing Sherlock off of her and laying out on the couch, and she brushes a hand through his curly locks. “I won't be long, Sherlock. I'll be back soon.”

He hears her walk around their flat and the door closing quietly. He misses her already.

* * *

> Please watch your alcohol intake tonight, Gabrielle. —MH
> 
> A car will take you home if you want it.—MH
> 
> Thanks, Mycroft, but I think I'll be fine. —GL

There is a tap on her shoulder, and Gabby looks up to see a smiling Jane wearing one of her thicker jumpers. “Evening, Jane,” she greets with a handshake and Pat's the bar seat next to her. “How was work?”

“Which one?” Jane asks, gesturing to the bartender for a pint. “Hey, Gabby.”

“The clinic?”

“Was good, except for the kid that was brought in with measles. Apparently, his mother doesn't believe in vaccinations, so we had to send him to the hospital.”

Gabby sucks in a breath. “Anti-vaxxers,” she says, not a bit impressed. “It's always the kids who suffer for their parents’ peace of mind. Bloody outrage.”

“You're telling me.”

“How's living with Sherlock? I've only worked with him the past three years, but I don't know what it'll be like living with him? Is he driving you mad yet?”

Jane laughs, taking a sip. “Actually, it’s not bad,” she says. “He's a bit eccentric if not brilliant, and he's a little sweet.”

Gabby’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Sherlock Holmes,  _our_ Sherlock Holmes, is  _a little sweet_? I've had one too many drinks, haven't I?”

“No. Really, he is. I think he's really happy he has got a flatmate.”

“Maybe he’s really happy he has got  _you_ as a flatmate. I've never seen him look so fond of anyone before.”

Jane smiles a bit, a soft mirth in her eyes. “I still want to punch him in the face sometimes.”

Gabby chuckles. “You and me both. You've met Mycroft, right? Sometimes, I'd like to give him a good kick in the head too.”

“I get that impression. You and Mycroft close friends?”

“Perhaps. We text and have dinner once in a while.”

“A younger, successful man taking you out for dinner? The wife must be happy for you.”

Gabby’s face blanched, shaking her head. “It only eggs her on to nag at me,” she says. “I know it might sound that way, but Mycroft and I are  _not_ involved. I would never cheat on Delia. She and I have been talking again, we're going to fix our marriage. Though God knows she could stop holding my sexuality over me.”

Jane hums. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I'm bisexual, Jane. Delia married me thinking it was a phase, but I've been trying to convince her it isn't and she sort of distrusts me for it still.”

“Hard to believe you've been married for so long. If you don't mind me saying, you seem unhappy about your wife, even though you love her. Have you thought about divorce?”

Gabby laughs bitterly, shaking her head. “It’s kinda too late to start over again, isn't it?” she asks sadly, sighing. “We're both past forty, I have gray hair up to my ends, and I'm too busy for kids. We waited a bit too long too to end things so we're trying to cling to the scraps.”

Jane gives her a sympathetic smile, placing a hand on the inspector's shoulder. “It’s okay, mate. You've got a friend to drink the night away with at least,” she says, giving Gabby a light wink. “Reached forty a few years ago, and I never stayed long with anyone. I'd always been deployed and moved too much. I just want to live the rest of my life in a comfy flat and a cuppa, and sometimes help solve crimes.”

“Cheers to that!” Gabby says, raising up her pint. “Anyway, did you see the game last week?”

That question changes the mood of their conversation, and they waste the next two hours talking about sports. Jane updates Gabby about that period drama the latter never has time to watch, saying that Sherlock actually watched a few episodes earlier. Gabby brings up old cases and tells Jane about the crazy things she's seen. By the time they finished their third drink, they're laughing and joking, and they get ready to leave, a little buzzed but not incapable of getting home as they walk back.

“It’s three a.m. in the morning, and I get this call,” Gabby continues in her story as they walk out of the pub. “And who's the other end bu—”

A gun cocks behind them, and they stop. “Put your hands up,” a gruff voice orders.

Gabby and Jane exchange side glances as they slowly raise their hands in the air.

“Now turn around!  _Slowly_.”

The two women comply, facing each other for a moment before they take one fast step back and pull out their guns as they complete their turn, catching whoever was behind them by surprise. “DI Lestrade, New Scotland Yard,” Gabby states, eyeing a man hiding behind a thick jacket and holding his gun like he didn't know how to use it. Amateur mugger. “Put the weapon down immediately, or there  _will_  be consequences.”

The mugger’s eyes widen in fear, gun pointing where his sights keep shifting in paranoia and inexperience. His hand is shaky, but Gabby and Jane keep their aims at the man’s head.

“Listen to the Inspector,” Jane adds. “Getting arrested for mugging a copper is better than getting arrested for trying to kill a copper.”

The man sucks in a breath, and he lowers his gun to the ground, Gabby moving quickly to apprehend him with the handcuffs she always keep on her. A habit that is helpful sometimes. “You're under arrest for attempted mugging and threatening a civilian and an officer with a deadly weapon,” she states, forcing the man onto his knees. “Jane, I'm going to call it in. You need to stay to give an account.”

“Got it,” Jane says, kicking the man’s gun away. She isn't going to touch with with a ten feet thick jumper.

Less than five minutes later, a patrol car rides up, and Sally Donovan gets out first. “Boss, are you okay?” she asks, gesturing for the accompanying officer to bring the man into the car. Another car arrives then to processed the scene.

“We're good,” Gabby answers, a hand at her hips. “You mind taking statements so we can get home?”

“We should go to the hospital to check any injuries.”

“Sure, but that'll take forever and we're fine. There wasn't even one shot. Besides, if Jane is out for too long, who knows how long it'll be before Sherlock gets here to make sure his partner is okay.”

Sally narrows her eyes in irritation. “Alright, alright,” she says exasperated. She quickly takes the statements of the two older woman as someone picks up the man’s gun for evidence. “We'll take care of the rest. Do you two need a ride home? From what I heard, you two had a few pints. Nighttime is awfully dangerous for two women to walk home by themselves.”

Jane laughs. “I think we've got ourselves figured,” she says. “Thanks, Donovan. I've been attacked by worse than a scared amateur in the middle of the night.”

“Me too,” Gabby adds. “Could use the walk. I'll call you to check in when I get back h—”

The inspector stops, spotting a familiar black car driving up beside the patrol cars, one leaving to take the mugger away. Her phone vibrates.

> Take the car, Gabrielle. —MH
> 
> Jane as well. Sherlock is not awake yet. —MH
> 
> Best to get back before he does. —MH
> 
> Please.—MH

Gabby shakes her head. “Nevermind,” she said, gesturing Jane towards the car. “Apparently, we’ve got a ride. Goodnight, Sally. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

Sally looks confused, but she lets it go, waving her goodbye as the other patrol car drives away. Gabby and Jane get into the car, and it drives off without any prompt.

“Mycroft?” Jane asks, almost teasing.

“Shut it, Jane,” Gabby says, rolling her eyes. She thought they were done with this conversation. “Mycroft and I are  _not_ involved. I'm still married, and he can pick anyone he pleases. Why would he want with a middle-aged woman like  _me_ anyway? He can have beautiful women if he wants or someone who isn't tired all the time.”

Jane sighs, smiling a little sadly. “It really is too late to start something new too, isn't it? Especially with someone much younger and brilliant,” she says, leaning back against the seat. “I should start dating again.”

Gabby frowns, almost regretting what she said earlier, and she takes her friend by the hand, trying to be comforting but feeling the exact way herself. The ride to Baker Street is silent, and they part quietly with promises to go to the pub again and ruin another mugging. The car then drives to her home, and Gabby gets off without a look back.

> Thanks for the ride. —GL
> 
> Of course. Anything for a dear friend. —MH

Gabby smiles the same smile Jane gave her only minutes ago, staring at the last words.  _Friends_ , that's what they'll ever be. Lord, what have she done, falling for a man who she sees far less than she sees her wife at home and yet feeling so drawn to. Mycroft Holmes is a charming man, funny and understanding of her long nights because his occupation means the same for him. He is very handsome too, and makes her feel loved.

There is a stab of guilt because these are all the things Gabby should've done for Delia throughout their entire marriage, but she didn't because she always puts her job first. Even if things did change and Mycroft did have the same feelings towards her, what would be different? Gabby would still be running around London after crimes and Sherlock, and Mycroft would simply replace Delia, waning in love.

She sighs, and she showers, changes her clothes and walks into the bedroom where her wife is, on the bed and asleep. Gabby slips in and wraps an arm around Delia’s supple waist, and she pulls the others in to spoon. Then everything, for a moment, this moment, is right. There's nothing to worry about. They can fix this.

* * *

“Sherlock, this is James,” Jane says, introducing her flatmate to yet another date. The third one this month actually. James is a nice man her age she met at the clinic. He's a veterinarian, so they could definitely teach each other something. “James, this is Sherlock.”

“You live with a man?” James asks, looking scandalous. “Is he your nephew?”

Jane snorts. “No, he's just my flatmate. Night, Sherlock, I'll be back late. Let's go, James.”

They leave the flat, walking down the stairs. “What is with him?” James ask. “He was  _glaring_ at me and didn't say a word. He's a rude bugger, isn't he?”

“He's different from most people. He's really not bad when you get to know him.”

“Well, I don't think he likes that I'm going on a date with you. He's _just_ a flatmate?”

“Yes, James, _just_ a flatmate. Why would a young man be interested in an older woman? It's usually the other way around, and that's because the older man has money. I don't.”

James smiles, looking at Jane kindly. “I think you're still very attractive, Jane,” he tells her. “I think you look good with an older man like  _me_.”

Jane laughs as their taxi comes up. “We’ll see about that, Mister Kingsley. It's only the first date.”

They plan a second one at the end of the night.

* * *

Sherlock is upset, something Mycroft is all too experienced with, and he’s gone to Mycroft's secret housing, unknowingly seeking help from his older brother,  _the_ British government. Mycroft figures that out when he arrived home late with some spare time to relax and perhaps even sleep, and found his little brother stretched out over his comforter, hugging a pillow to his chest.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says, “what did I say about coming here uninvited?”

“Nothing that'll make me stop,” Sherlock replies, sitting up. He frowns, pouting like he's a little boy again. “Mycroft, Jane is dating strange men.”

“And what would you like me to do about that?”

“Make it stop.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes, putting his umbrella away and loosening his tie before sitting down next to his brother. “What Jane does is her business, Sherlock. She wouldn't much appreciate it if I ruin every prospect of a date for you, and she will know you're behind it.”

Sherlock frowns even more, pulling the pillow away and punching it. “I wish I had a gun.”

“You will  _not_ shoot my walls, Sherlock. Maybe you should talk to her about it. Who knows, she might feel the same way. She is your goldfish, she’ll understand.”

“No, she might not,” Sherlock counters. “She went out with Gina last month and came back looking . . . unhappy. A hot cuppa didn't help.”

“ _Gabrielle_ , Sherlock. What do you deduce is wrong with our dear Jane?”

“You. And Gwen.”

Mycroft’s jaw goes slack in surprise, but he quickly picks himself up, clearing his throat. “What about me, and Gabrielle?”

“Jane looks at Greg—”(“That's not even a woman’s name!”)“—and sees herself. They're both women past their thirties with careers with high risks and needing much time and energy and are friends who meet up once every other week to drink and conversate about the dicontentment of the romantic lives. I know you and Gillian—”(“ _Gabrielle_ , Sherlock.”)“—have more than a professional relationship, Mycroft. I deduced it, she smiles when you texts her and you stand closer to her than you do me when you show up. She's  _your_ goldfish, but you're too much afraid to tell her simply because she's married. Well, you have to do something about this, or else Jane is going to keep bringing strange men into our flat and introduce them to me as if they're not  _stupidest_ people I've ever seen!”

At the end of his rant, Sherlock’s face is twisted in an irritable pout, like his favorite toy was taken away from him. But in this instance, it was the possibility of losing someone who had become just so important to him in such a short period of time.

Mycroft gives his brother a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he says softly, reaching over to give his brother a pat on the knee. They rarely show affection to each other, but this feels like a good moment. He is doing the right thing. “Maybe you've deduced correctly that I desire Gabrielle much more than I have the right to, but you cannot disregard that she and I have lives outside of each other. Our interactions are simple breaks from routine, but we aren't even considered friends. Gabrielle and  _I_ have never shared a pint together. I am no one to her, and this . .  .  _affliction_ I will not intrude in on her. You will have to figure out how to deal with Jane’s dating life yourself. It's better off this way, Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowns, and he stands up and leaves, shooting Mycroft one cold look before slamming the door behind him. The older Holmes feels as empty as his house right then and there, but he sighs, exhausted, and goes to bed to catch maybe an hour or two of sleep. As he showers and changes, Mycroft thinks on what he said to Sherlock, and silently, he regrets every word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . . I write Sherlock like a soft boi, omgs.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my work, please check out my Twitter and consider supporting me, [@kappachyun](https://twitter.com/kappachyun?s=09).


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